


Necrophilia Incarnate

by paperclipbitch



Category: Frankenstein - Mary Shelley
Genre: M/M, i studied this book at gcse and writing fic seemed like an idea, warnings are there just in case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 02:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1026424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperclipbitch/pseuds/paperclipbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He bleeds like a person but he is not one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Necrophilia Incarnate

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted on LJ November 2006] Okay, so, I studied _Frankenstein_ at 16 for my GSCE and loathed most of the book but shipped Frankenstein/his Creature with a weird passion and I wrote all this fic; this is the only readable one now tbh, but I suddenly remembered its existence because I finally saw the Cumberbatch/Miller play at the cinema tonight, and thought I KNOW I WILL STICK THIS ON AO3. If you hate it; this was 7 years ago now, so, yeah. Blame teen!me.

He convinces himself that he walks a thin, coloured line between light and dark, rather than letting himself believe what everyone else believes about him- that he was never anything up a creature of evil. He does not want to be a creature of evil, but he’s coming to realise that he has little choice in the matter. He’ll never walk in the sunlight like a person because, apparently, he isn’t one. And he never will be. Fucked over from the moment of his birth. Born from lightning and he’ll spend forever with his fingers burnt. Even the devil got a while in heaven before God got wise. But he gets nothing- not a name, not a home, not even a pair of wings to be cut off.

He bleeds like a person but he is not one.

They all sit in their windows with their fires and their friendship and their laughter and remind him just how far he has to go and that it isn’t worth trying. No matter what he does he won’t be able to peel back the line that separates him from the parts of people who laughed and loved like everyone else does, from the stitches and the scars and the skin that doesn’t match: he is an entirely new kind of evil and he’ll never be at home anywhere.

He wishes that Victor had _thought_ of this. Or, you know, thought _at all_.

They called her Justine. Beautiful she was (and still is, to a certain extent), curls of hair falling around her face, breasts almost tumbling out of the neckline of her dark shift dress, looking as though they’d be soft to touch. He’d never (and still has never) touched a woman before but he imagined the feeling of her willing and delicate body pressed against his. And knew that if she saw him now, woke up from her exhausted sleep with straw in her curls, her perfect lips would widen into a scream of terror. So he simply let the necklace slip between his fingers to fall on the skirt of her dress, sliding down her thigh like his hand would if they were in another world. If she wouldn’t be his then she couldn’t be anyone’s. Her face twitched in sleep and he left before she could wake and rouse the alarm.

He still maintains that Victor deserved it.

Dead brother, dead friends- Victor left his creation in unnamed darkness and twists of madness. He will ensure that Victor pays for this forever, because he has nothing left to himself. He asks for a companion, makes a bargain, and loses anyway. Dear, dead, fucking beautiful Justine pitched in pieces into the river. Clervel’s murder was almost too easy and he always suspected there was something going on between the man and Victor, curtains pulled shut, giggles and groans by candlelight. It’s amazing (or maybe it isn’t) what you see when you creep around underneath windows watching the people inside and wishing until your chest hurts.

But no one listens to the wishes of a dead man.

He fingers the scar on his left thigh, running down the inside like a seam in a pair of trousers, joining the thigh muscle of a soldier with the skin of a poet, tied together with the fates of dozens of men sliced open and desecrated for art and science and to prove a point. He’s sewn together from so many people that he wonders dizzily if there’s self enough for him left inside, in this patchwork of skin and muscles and other people’s bones. 

Victor is still afraid of him but Victor is weak and they both know it.

He crushes a bird between his palms just to feel the moment between life and death, howling in the darkness with another’s blood on his hands. A stitch here, a stitch there- Victor scared himself and Justine’s soft breasts are no one’s now, down at the bottom of the lake where Victor drew his line and he- his creature of darkness and bloody-minded desperation- crossed it. Biting his lips until they break and he’s starting to think he doesn’t want to be forgiven. Doesn’t want Victor to deign to look his way but his footsteps are on the floor and Elizabeth almost falls out of her nightdress in the tiresome, time-consuming kind of swoon women are expected to indulge themselves with ( _what would she do if she saw a real monster?_ he wonders absently, before remembering that he’s forgotten who he is again). It’s too easy to throw her over the bed and tighten his hands around her neck, the scar between his index and middle finger standing out ever more boldly as Elizabeth fights feebly for life with tears freezing in her eyes. He leans over to catch her last breath as it slips between her lips and into his mouth, cold like flames and tasting of despair. Last kiss for a condemned woman.

He knows then that he is crazy and tries to summon up the energy to care and can’t.

So he tidies her up, because the idea of leaving her spread and her tits hanging out doesn’t seem right (it is her wedding night after all), and he leaves her lying there, all innocence and blonde curls, necrophilia incarnate and all that, for Victor to find and savour in his own way (he does love dead bodies, after all). For a moment he considers staying, just to see the look on Victor’s face, just to see how far the phrase _I will be with you on your wedding night_ can be taken, before realising that Victor probably won’t take kindly to the death of his wife, and even a pity fuck won’t come to fruition because he’s gone a little too far. So he runs for it, breath catching in his lungs, lingering near enough to hear Victor’s scream of helplessness and anger; maybe he doesn’t love necrophilia after all.

And then the pursuit begins.

The world tastes like grit in his mouth, like ashes and Elizabeth’s dying kiss. Into the frozen wastes because there’s fucking nowhere else to go but into the cold and hope hard for Victor to die of frostbite or something. So far that hasn’t happened, but he can’t stop running, over the ice, through the snow, blazing his trail of insanity with Victor streaming after him. Bloodlust and screaming and he’s so fucking deep into this he can’t stop and let Victor catch up. So he doesn’t.

With Victor’s tongue in his mouth he entertains the idea that this is hatred.

All right. So he lied. All good stories require a little embellishment and even if his story isn’t a good one in any way, shape, or form, there’s no harm in slowing down to find out what the man with a hard-on for dead people wants. And he’s here now, snow falling on his shoulders (and maybe he would feel cold except that he never really has) and Victor seems to have run out of words. He intended to make Victor angry, make him sorry that he’d dug up all those corpses and cut them into pieces to play his own private card game with God, make him wish he’d thought twice about creating a person from the bones of dead men. But Victor is beyond insanity now, and his dangerously bemused creation feels icy wet soak into the back of his thin shirt, and wonders exactly where Victor sees this ending. Maybe he doesn’t. Victor has already proven that he’s not very competent in the forward-thinking category. What seems like a good idea now will probably not be a good idea tomorrow but Victor doesn’t appear to have grasped that idea yet, and at this point in time, with more human contact than he’s ever had in his short and far-from-charmed life, his creation does not feel inclined to point this out.

Victor’s regrets are Victor’s regrets and if the sun even remembers to rise tomorrow in these cold and godforsaken wastes, his creature will remind himself that was more than he was ever expecting and mistakes are only for the living.


End file.
